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Before I even read it, I could see a familiar face through the thick glass. A familiar figure, towering three times taller than the man himself.
An oil-painted portrait of Steve is hanging in the foyer. The likeness captures everything powerful and kind about the man.
My jaw drops at first, but then my chest swells with pride. He’s more than just a man who knows what he wants.
He’s a man who knows how to give back too.
The plaque out front fills in the finer gaps of detail in my mind:
St. Rosemary’s Special Children’s Hospital. Saved from demolition and restored, then re-opened in October 1995 by our illustrious patron and benefactor, Mr. Steven Carter.
CHAPTERNINE
Steve
The building, the plaque. The neighborhood. It brings a lot of silent information back to my mind.
But for Christ’s sake, get rid of that damned portrait!
I feel what must be embarrassment for the first time in decades as the giant glass doors swish open, and I lead Holly inside.
Her eyes are wide with wonder and probably just a touch of disbelief, but that picture’s coming down. And soon.
So I’m Steven Carter, a big shot of some kind who has a soft spot for charities and hospitals.
Nothing unusual about that. In fact, the whole place brings back a feeling I can only equate with my childhood for some reason.
I’m not embarrassed about the name on the door or even the oversized image of me.
It’s the fact that there’s only my name and only my picture that’s bugging me.
That feeling I had about Holly and me?
I mean every word of it.
If I’m some sort of king, then she’s definitely my new queen, and I need to set to work including her in every aspect of whatever it is I do exactly.
Right after I get this damned bump on my head seen to….
It’s an old building, for sure. A converted cathedral by the looks, with plenty of new wings and additions running off it.
Gleaming Italian marble floors and stained glass with heavy, inlaid, and carved woodwork keep the religious undertones. But this is a hospital by any standards.
The giant glass reception area with a few dozen rows of crisp waiting chairs, along with a strong smell of quality disinfectant, reminds me of that.
A few anxious-looking parents are cradling sick kids, but the place is largely empty, which makes me feel good for some reason.
Less sick people this time of year is never a bad thing, I guess.
I feel my head starting to throb again, pained more by a sudden rush of memories than any bump.
It feels like I’m on a conveyor belt with Holly rather than walking through the foyer of the building I know somehow I must be a big part of.
“Steven!” A shrill voice echoes across the huge space, and before I turn my head, I know everything’s gonna be alright.
I feel myself starting to lean heavily on Holly again, wanting to murmur something I’ve never told anyone, but the spots in front of my eyes start to beat me to it.
There’s the sound of hurried steps, opening doors, and the activity of doctors and nurses.
